


Never leave a wrong to ripen

by Cotta



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Citadel of Flame, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Romance, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cotta/pseuds/Cotta
Summary: The citadel was dark despite the firelight, and Logan’s eyes were strained by the time the first brazier was demolished. The heavy, thick smoke from the open flames, both magical and otherwise, made his nose clogged and the air stung his lungs as he breathed in. How the Flame Legion could live like this, he’d never understand.He wondered if his charr companion had the same issues, but he kept himself from asking. It would be met with mockery, for sure.
Relationships: Rytlock Brimstone/Logan Thackeray
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Prove your mettle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published work for this fandom and pairing, and I'm uncertain if I did it justice. But I'm of the firm belief this pair of doofs need more content, so I'll give it a go! This work is not beta-read and I'm not a native english-speaker, so I apologize in advance if you come across errors with my grammar and spelling. I've tried to proof-read to the best of my abilities, but I'll gladly take feedback on it in case you find something I can fix! If it feels a little choppy to read, it's probably because it was written in pieces at first and then put together into a longer story.
> 
> It's not necessary to have read Destiny's Edge to understand this story, but there will be references to cetain things that happened in the book.
> 
> * * *

Rytlock fought down the growl stuck in his throat for what felt like the hundredth time, cleaving through the army of the Flame with a man by his side he couldn’t stop wishing was not there. It wasn’t his fight, and he was even less wanted as a partner. You needed to be able to trust partners after all, and Logan had proven himself wholly unreliable. A coward. A liar. Rytlock would show him, show him how a real warrior fought and won without help from weaklings like him. Prove to him that he, as a charr and as Tribune Brimstone, was better off without a mouse in tow. Prove that he’d never needed Logan in the first place.

It fueled his anger and his sharpened hatred, the fact that he’d once been a fool to trust this man. Come to be civil with him, befriend him... even show him the utmost respect and loyalty. The man had been presented with his Blood Legion crest, a symbol of so much more than they could both speak with words. And Logan had taken this gesture of faith and blind trust and defiled it, thrown it to the dogs in a show of arrogance and cowardice that only a human could muster.

The charr hated it. Hated being lied to, and made to look like an idiot for ever trusting someone else to have his back. In his darkest moments, the dreams filled with rage and betrayal, Logan laughed at his stupidity and ran like a coward back to his safe haven while the others fought the battle of their lives. Left them to die, because he was too weak to stand with them when it mattered the most. And Rytlock had believed in him, in his strength and his undeniable bond with this unlikely friend, and he’d gotten burned. It wouldn’t happen again.

* * *

The citadel was dark despite the firelight, and Logan’s eyes were strained by the time the first brazier was demolished. The heavy, thick smoke from the open flames, both magical and otherwise, made his nose clogged and the air stung his lungs as he breathed in. How the Flame Legion could live like this, he’d never understand. He wondered if his charr companion had the same issues, but he kept himself from asking. It would be met with mockery, for sure.

He had tried so hard. So very, very hard. Tried to reach out at first, tried to explain things he barely understood himself to someone who didn’t want to understand at all. He had then tried to give it some time, all the time that the charr would need to calm down and be rational. That hadn’t worked as he thought, and Rytlock had grown even angrier in the time Logan tried to stay away and keep his head down. At this point, his own frustration at the situation had grown stronger and it mingled with the sadness of loss and confusion. He just wanted to explain. Wanted to grieve for the friend that they’d lost with the one’s he considered family, wanted to express his doubts in his Queen and the strange bond anchored in his mind. That was all he wanted, needed. But he was shot down, time and time again and his own irritation and anger started festering in the deeper parts of the fresh wounds.

The last thing he could think of, was to prove himself in the way charr seemed to think was best. By being stronger, fighting harder and being even more stubborn.

Back to the heat, the thick black smoke and the choking tension. To the beads of sweat rolling uncomfortably close to his already blurry eyes, stinging scrapes and making his grip slippery. By the Six, they just kept coming. Fanatic, burned beyond recognition and bloodthirsty charr snarled around every corner, and the Commander and her companion were starting to look a little out of breath. Logan had to agree in his stubborn silence.

“Wait. My pet, and I for that matter, need water. Rest for a few moments.” The amber sylvari that looked almost like a little wildfire herself spoke up, a slender hand stroking her Fern hound, those unnerving piles of leaf that looked a lot like wolves. Logan was alright with sylvari in general, but... sometimes their odd magic and mysterious appearance in Tyria plucked on strings of doubt in his own gods. Melandru should have been closer to these beings than an old centaur druid, if the human gods really were so almighty. He came to a halt, grateful for the chance to wipe his damp hair from his face. “I agree, let’s-“

“I don’t need a break, coward.” Rytlock’s snarl cut Logan off, and the dark-furred charr shoved past them all until the sylvari woman stood in front of him and didn’t budge. For a second they stared at each other and Logan stood on edge, expecting Sohothin to flare to life or golden arrows pierce the smokey air.

The sentient foliage-turned-wolf whined, and the sylvari paid no mind to the aggression in the air. She gently pet its ears, pulling out a waterskin as her dark eyes regarded the charr. “Rytlock. Calm down. We can’t rush in like this, and all of us need a breather.” She sounded so sure, so authoritative that Logan had to take a second look at the woman. She had come to sound more like a leader each day. He saw from the corner of his eye how the charr tensed for a moment.

Rytlock made a grunt of dislike, but to Logan’s surprise he stood down. It seemed to be the end of it, but Logan could tell the charr was itching to get going again. He felt the weight in his chest sink in deeper, hollowing him out with both grief and anger. Once upon a time, they would’ve bantered and kept each other company to pass time. Once upon a time, this bitter resentment wasn’t even something they thought could happen. They’d been too close for that sort of thing. 

And Logan, according to Rytlock, had gone and ruined it all.

He felt the sting, like slow burning acid being poured over paper-thin skin, at the thought. It bubbled under the surface of his composure, trying to break him whenever the arguments turned harsher than need be. Whenever Rytlock _looked_ at him with those eyes, full of hatred and distaste as if Logan was something disgusting and should be run through with Sohothins magical blade. Funny, since it was a human sword. One would think Rytlock would disown the weapon as well now that he had decided to turn his back to his human friend, but no. No, he held it close still, wielding it as if it was his right by conquest. Logan couldn’t deny that he found it oddly disheartening.

As their quick, hushed little break came to an end they made short work of the patrolling troup on their way to the second brazier. The water Logan had managed to gulp down felt like nothing by the time they were halfway there, but he was eternally grateful that he’d been able to rub the clean liquid over his eyes and rid himself of what felt like a thick layer of soot and grime that made his vision dangerously bad. At the brazier the Flame shamans put up a valiant resistance, managing to scorch Rytlock’s fur if the smell was anything to go by, and Logan saw as the fire licked across his hastily summoned protection magic almost as if the tongues of flame were alive. 

One of the shamans, disfigured and melted together with metal and fire in ways the Six would shun, turned it’s snout towards the shimmering blue aura. “A human! A pink-skin in our Citadel! I’ll sear your eyes out and rip you limb from limb, you disgusting mouse!” The voice was an amalgamation of growls; the hiss of fire and crackling embers forced to become words, inhuman and distorted, yet the message came out clear and Logan couldn’t choose between gritting his teeth and rolling his eyes. 

“If I had a silver for every time I’ve heard that…” He mumbled, swinging his weapon to land a blow to the jowls of a Flame Legion warrior charging at him. Landing it with a thud and a wet, slobbering crack against the jawbone, Logan opted to move away from the frothing charr and survey the battlefield more properly. 

The Flame Legion’s cult following were rabid, throwing themselves with the pointy ends first against the invaders. However, Rytlock’s rifle and the sylvari’s longbow took them down one by one from afar, while the pale blue magic of Logan met them head on, solid in his defense against the oncoming horde. Around him, the Fern hound snarled with fangs and claws ready to shred the flesh and hide of the charr. All in all, Logan concluded it went decently well. Granted, Rytlock’s fur did sizzle a little but the human knew his protection magic wasn’t welcome to aid his friend even though the smell of burnt fur twisted something deep in him.

With a little effort, some blood and sweat and a few risky situations, it paid off. The second brazier crumbled, and they felt a surge and shift in the air as the foreign magic reshaped itself before vanishing completely.

* * *

As the brazier flickered out and turned to burnt rubble, Rytlock for once didn’t feel victorious. He felt conflicted. The Flame shaman had spit out curses and slurs at his former friend, and for the shortest second of Rytlock’s life, he’d wanted to snarl back. Tell the foul creature to watch his tongue before he ripped it out himself, because the human was not to be trifled with and was more of a charr than the Flame scum would ever be.

Then he’d remembered everything, and the volatile anger had come surging up his throat like bile as he fought to not shout his agreeance with the shaman. Logan, the traitor and betrayer, deserved every barb and remark Rytlock could think of if he ever felt that he could spare the man the time and breath to waste. But as to not compromise their precarious mission, he’d kept silent. He was a soldier after all, and charr soldiers didn’t fail.

But the small, instinctual habit of defending Logan had come back unbidden and it bothered him. He’d make sure it never did that again when this was over.


	2. An involuntary addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you, hopefully to your liking! The next chapter will take a little more time, I'm going into a hectic and rough week and I won't be able to write much. But I have the outline for this fic done, so I hope it won't take too long! Again, this work is not beta-read, so apologies if the grammar or spelling isn't A+. I'll gladly take pointers or corrections, if you wish to give that sort of feedback.
> 
> Happy reading!

With the foul, twisted magic of the braziers dispelled, the Citadel was open for their advance. Or, as open as they could make it. They fought patrols, singed their skin on the blazes and fireballs hurled their way and grit their teeth against the firesmoke threatening their eyesight and their oxygen supply. By this point, Logan had all but forgotten that they'd even rested in the first place. The caverns were warm to the point of boiling, and it made the precariousness of traversing the rock bridges even more nerve-wracking as the floor far beneath was slowly moving, a gurgling lava river. Steam sometimes spewed out of big bubbles bursting in the flow beneath, sending jets of sulfur-smelling and agonizingly hot air up towards them with a dull pop and low rumble, making their progress far from quick. One misstep, one error of judgement and their end would be painfully quick.

Yet again Logan had to wonder how any being could live comfortably like this. He supposed he could’ve asked Rytlock about the details of Flame Legions exile and hatred but as it was now, he wasn’t certain what irritated him the most; the hellscape they travelled or the Tribune who kept snarling at him. On every turn, with every little thing, Rytlock took offense to something or other. The constant ridicule and harassment was beginning to grate on his nerves, just a little. He thanked the Six he only took the bait and jabbed back _some_ of the time. He tried to the best of his short patience abilities, tried to see it as progress instead of failure and to remind himself that Rytlock had always been an asshole and that was how he showed you that he cared. Or how he showed you that he hated you. It was terribly unclear sometimes.

As they reached a somewhat stable patch of the cave system, they could scout ahead for a few meters, spotting another larger group of Flame Legion soldiers. They didn’t move particularly much, just a few sentries taking strolls around their perimeter, but it was clear that they were stationed there with purpose.

“No doubt part of the welcoming committee.” Logan muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the sight. There were quite a few soldiers, and what looked like those large effigies that the shamans sometimes brought along as heavy hitters. Two of them stood dormant, their odd body made of metal and coal, cold and still. Logan eyes them with suspicion. “At least the gates to the central chamber are open.”

“They’re not going to let us stroll through the door.” Rytlock hisses out, ever the epitome of optimism. 

The little group slunk back out of sight, barely for a minute, to breathe and ready themselves. Logan cast a glance to his side, eyes seeking the dark-furred charr and finding only a turned back and tense shoulders ready to attack. In his chest, he felt the acid work its way through his veins and eat ever so slowly inwards to somewhere behind his lungs. It constricted them, made him flustered with anger and petty ill-will and the world around him seemed to blur and center in on that raw, tangled bunch of emotions. It became harder to breathe, coils of exhaustion and frustration wrapped around his lungs. His grip on his weapon slacked for the faintest of seconds as the drive to fight left him. This stupid and reckless dive into the heart of Flame seemed more and more pointless, only serving as a miserable reminder that they were no longer brothers in arms. It had been foolishly optimistic to think that years of this festering conflict could be somehow resolved by working together again.

His muscles twitched, and the world came into focus again as the sylvari moved up to position with her longbow, her aim steady and incredible even on these long distances. The fingers that’d lost strength caught his weapon and Logan shrugged the dull, hampering feelings off with a stretch of his neck. It wouldn’t do to let the others down, or to give Rytlock more to pick at. He was here to show him, at least once and for all, that Logan the Human could keep up just as well as Runtlock the Charr. And that would have to be what either drove them fully apart, shoving an unmendable splinter into Destiny’s Edge and into Logan’s core, or what finally, _finally_ set them on the path to some form of tentative reconciliation. This was his last attempt he hoped, but deep down he knew he had a terrible track record of running back to the charr even when he knew there’d be no kindness to be had. This was the pinnacle, the edge of the proverbial knife, and time would tell if they would survive or fall.

The assault started on their terms, swift and deadly as the sylvari lets her arrow find a home in a charr soldiers eye socket.

* * *

It was better to lose all thoughts of Logan and his meddling with a proper battle, so he threw himself headfirst into the fray. The central gate was the last hurdle before the inner sanctum, and Rytlock would be damned if he let that opportunity slip through his paws. He abandoned his rifle to instead draw Sohothin, relishing for a moment as it sated his need for more physical altercation. There was something satisfactory with feeling metal cleave through meat and muscle, to throw his weight against another opponent, and it served as an adequate distraction from unwanted thoughts. He mowed through the Flame Legion forces, snarling bloodlust and rage in the face of his equally battle-crazed opponents, taking point in their attack.

A shaman holds his staff up high, summoning energy to lay waste to the battlefield with a hoarse cry. “Hold the bridge! Burn them to ash!” And Rytlock takes that as a personal challenge, and rushes him. 

To his left flank something crunched and a disfigured charr fell to the ground in a heap, a wispy trickle of light blue magic seeping from the indent in his caved in skull. Among the carnage, there was something disturbingly precise and sophisticated with the razor-sharp icy blue magic cutting through fire and smoke. Deadly and savage like any of Rytlocks band-brothers yet precise and controlled in a way that could creep under his fur, reminding him of why he had found the human worthy to fight by his side back in the day with painful clarity.

Rytlock was loath to admit it, but Logan hadn’t lost his edge.

The only thing that gives the trio pause is the effigy, and by the time it keels over with a horrid screech of metal they’re all breathing heavily, on edge and trying to take inventory of their scrapes and bruises. All in all, not too bad Rytlock thinks, spitting out a glob of blood and mucus on the ground. It sizzles as it makes contact with the heated rock, and he snarls low in his throat. The sooner he can snap the neck of Baelfire and get out of this mess the better. He grits his teeth and waits only for the few moments that it takes for the sylvari to yank a last arrow out of a felled enemy, pointedly turning away before he can slip up and look over to see how Logan is doing, before he lumbers forward to the gates leading out to the bridge. He notes the forces gathering, amassing on the end of the bridge like ants protecting their queen. Some of them venture out on the narrow rock bridge, spanning a chasm of lava, and they all but foam at the mouth to get a chance to prove their worth and loyalty to the crazed fanatic. On the other side, Baelfire looms over them at the top of his massive rock spire and Rytlock feels something pull at his gut at the sight. The Flame Legion had always been demented in their ways but the way Gaheron had corrupted himself, in the vain attempt to ascend to a false godhood that no charr in their right mind believed in, was almost nauseating to even him. Disgraceful was just the beginning for what that was. 

Rytlock surges forward towards the bridge, presses himself to go a little faster to get ahead of Logan as he hears him run up behind him. Anger pushes his legs onward, and he refuses to entertain the useless feelings that tell him that he’s literally running away from something he should face, _needs to face_. Instead he locks eyes with the nearest Flame Legion soldier and bares his fangs in a clear show of defiance and aggression. Killing it will do instead.

Above them, Baelfire roars as the cavern noticeably heats up, something unclean and twisted surging towards the top of the tower before them. The voice of the self-proclaimed leader of the Flame Legion booms through the chamber. “Puny mortals. You’ll never ascend to face me!” Around his raised fists crackles embers and fire, the surge of energy gathering there and molding the heat into a massive fireball. 

Rytlock barely has time to notice, is just in time to wrench his eyes away from his opponent to look up, before the mass of molten rock and fire is hurled down on them. There’s nowhere to go, the bridge is narrow and beneath it is only more heat and lava, and there is no time to backpedal before it crashes into the space just in front of him.

The heat barely has time to register before the ground disappears beneath him in a deafening rumble of exploding rock, the screams and yips from the enemy troop drowning out his huff of surprise as he feels himself going weightless for a brief moment. Then he’s falling among the rubble, no matter how much his claws scrabble for purchase among the wreckage it only falls away, and above him the cave ceiling quickly grows ever more distant.


End file.
